


Serves Me Right

by Gammarus



Category: Arden St. Ives Series - Alexis Hall, For Real - Alexis Hall
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Cock Bondage, Dom/sub, Kink Negotiation, Knitting, Light BDSM, Massage, Multi, Pancakes, Polyamorous Characters, Service Submission, Sex Club, Threesome - F/F/M, Vaginal Fisting, caring domme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28800636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gammarus/pseuds/Gammarus
Summary: Ilya is a very special sort of sub, and he’s not asking anyone for what he needs. Fortunately, Grace figures it out…This features Ilya, Grace, Sam, and Amy and has cameos by Arden, Toby, and Laurie.
Relationships: Grace (For Real)/Sam (For Real), Grace (For Real)/Sam (For Real)/Amy (For Real), Justin "Ilya" Bellerose & Grace (For Real)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 13





	Serves Me Right

I first saw Ilya at Pervocracy. He’s an absolutely gorgeous piece of man-candy, for starters. A trim body with evident muscle — but not too much. A beautiful face, clean skin, even features, golden hair and blue eyes. He was on display in leather trousers, black boots bristling with straps and buckles, and no shirt and oh my, what an expanse of chest, defined pecs, modest pink nipples... I could easily have believed that everything he was wearing was bespoke. If it wasn’t, it was high-end and meticulously cared for. The leather was in perfect condition and every buckle was shiny and fastened firmly.

Yet despite the outfit, he looked prim. He sat quietly upright, not on the prowl and, if you can believe it, he was knitting. He had a mass of something soft and fleecy in all the colours of a sunset. Sam is as friendly as a puppy, so he greeted the newcomer with a booming, “Hey there! I’m Sam.” 

Ilya responded quietly with “I’m Ilya,” and Sam, who can take a hint, moved on.

Ilya was mobbed, of course. Anyone new to the scene is a bit like a morsel of food that falls into a tank of piranhas, and Ilya was a lovely piece of the finest filet mignon. At least half the people there introduced themselves to him, but he didn’t talk to any of them for very long. His answers were very brief, his face remained impassive, and most exchanges lasted no more than a few sentences. The only extended discussion I saw was about his knitting; he and Eleanor exchanged the details of their favourite yarn stores, and he showed her the stitch pattern he was working. 

The obvious conclusion was that he was very new, possibly very shy, and testing the waters. We didn’t expect to see him again.

But he was there again the next month. 

And the month after that. 

He never went into the dungeons or make-out rooms, just stayed in the chill-out space. He seemed quite content to sit there knitting quietly, and if he could have done the same at a coffee shop or drop-in hours at a yarn store, well, this was a different ambiance — apparently one that he preferred. Every time we arrived, Sam would give a cheerful, “All right, Ilya?” and get a nod in response. He became a familiar sight, and soon only newcomers tried to pull him.

After several months of this, I approached him. He was sitting with perfect posture on a velvet sofa that would have been better suited to lounging and, as always, he was knitting, Tonight he was working on something supple and a bit shiny in a mix of blues and greens, very tranquil. It’s not my sort of colour palette — I’m much splashier — but it was quiet and lovely, much like its creator. I came up to him and asked, “May I sit down?”

His reply was simple: “If you like.”

I took a seat, smiled my best meeting-people smile, and extended my hand. “Hello. I’m Grace.”

He shifted both needles to his left hand for a moment to give me a perfect handshake — firm, brief, not limp or sweaty. “Hello, Grace. My name is Ilya.” His tone was exceedingly neutral, but I was determined that he would not put me off. He studied me unobtrusively, looking at my face, not my tits mounding out above my corset.

“You’ve been coming here for months now. There are plenty of places you could knit that don’t have a cover charge and would let you wear more comfortable clothing, so I think you must be looking for something.”

He didn’t say anything, but inclined his head in confirmation as his fingers continued busily knitting.

“And you haven’t found it yet, or you wouldn’t still be here.”

Nod.

“You don’t talk to people much about anything besides knitting — I love those colours, by the way — so I think you don’t want to actually tell anyone what it is that you’re trying to find.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “I find analogous colour schemes rather soothing, particularly with cool colours like these. And you are correct in your surmise.”

I tilted my head and looked at him consideringly. “I’ve got a theory about what you want, and I’m going to tell you my theory, and I’m going to make a suggestion.”

“All right,” he said. 

“You’re not a dom or a switch; you would tell everyone who approached you what you wanted to do to them, at least in general terms, and someone would have given you a spin by now. Perhaps dozens of someones, depending on your tastes. No, I think you’re submissive. You’re so still and neutral. But I don’t think you just want to be ordered around and hurt. You would have found that by now, too. You’re so impassive that I think perhaps you don’t experience desire at all.” 

He was still knitting, but his eyes were on me, not his needles. His face was still but he was certainly listening. It was possible that he would let me say everything I had to say, thank me for my interest, and send me packing — but I didn’t think he would.

“I think you want to subsume yourself in service. That what you want, or maybe  _ need _ is a better word, is to give yourself over completely. You want to live for someone else’s will, comfort, and pleasure. Someone whose life will be made better by all the things you do for them, whether it’s shopping or sex or spreadsheets.”

His needles had slowed by now and he was regarding me with great interest. I felt that I was heading in the right direction but he was waiting to see if I would reach the destination and put my finger on his very particular need.

“The person you serve should be worth serving. You can’t just tell everyone who approaches you that you want to obey someone’s every whim — anyone would say yes to that, and lots of those people wouldn’t be what you want. You are picture-perfect in your appearance, your self-control, even your knitting.” I gave him a little grin. “You would give impeccable service. Anyone would be happy to have you make their life better — but you don’t want to give that to someone who would be casual or careless or any less perfect in using you than you would be in serving them.”

At this point, he had placed his knitting carefully down beside him and I had his full attention.

“So, how’s my sleuthing? Am I anywhere near being right, or are you going to tell me to go off and mind my own business? Because I really have been terribly nosey.”

“You… are not incorrect. To use my own term, I seek to be owned. By, as you say, someone worthy. My fulfilment comes in meeting their requirements and not any desire intrinsic to myself.” That was the most he had said to anyone in the many months that he had been coming to the club. 

“I doubt I’m what you had in mind for an owner. I’m lively and effusive and I like to tease people. I use every form of sex play to bring joy to myself and my partners. I love to delight people’s hearts, and being delighted would not suit you at all.”

His face bore a slight grimace. “Indeed not.”

“But I think our flat might be a good place for you. Our friends and lovers come and go and you could give service to every one of them at my direction. If you are fulfilled by pleasing people, if you want to lose yourself in it, I think you could flourish with us, and help us all to flourish. That’s the kind of thing I like to make happen.” 

That was almost all my cards on the table. Onward to my invitation. “I suggest that you and I meet over coffee or drinks some time and discuss what service you are prepared to give and what serving us would be like. If it seems like it might be a fit, I’ll invite you to come to our flat for a weekend. Be part of our lives. Give and do and serve. After we see how it goes, we can decide whether we want to do more in the future.”

I sum up. “That’s my suggestion to you. A negotiation and then a trial weekend. Are you interested?”

Ilya is not expressive. It has taken me a long time to learn to read him. But already I thought I saw a hint of relief and gratitude in his eyes as he simply said, “Yes.”

“Excellent. Can you meet me Saturday at eleven am? And would you prefer a cafe or a pub?”

“Saturday morning at eleven would be admirable, at a cafe” 

“All right, Ilya. I’ll see you then.” I took out a card that had my first name and contact details, added the name of a favourite cafe near our flat, and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Grace. I will see you on Saturday.” And with that I inclined my head to him — copying one of his favourite minimalist gestures — and left him there to pocket my card and resume his knitting.

Sam had known I was going to approach Ilya. Lying in bed with him the next morning, I told him the agreement we had reached. His eyebrows shot up. “A live-in house servant? Boy oh boy, we’re moving up in the world!”

I said, “Sweetie, this is for his benefit as much as ours. He seems totally adrift. And since he knows so clearly what he wants, I think he had it and then lost it. I don’t know whether we’ll ever hear that story, and I’m not going to ask.’

“And we just what? Order him around?”

“We give him tasks, acknowledge when they’re done well, and make as little fuss over him as possible.”

“And that’s what he wants? That’s going to get him off?” Sam’s voice was entirely disbelieving.

“I don’t know about getting off. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s both asexual and aromantic. But I think it’s what he craves.”

“Well, his kink is not my kink, and that’s okay,” said Sam, putting a twist on a popular saying in the scene. 

“No,” I agreed, entwining my fingers in his hair and giving a good solid yank, “being ignored and left to get your work done like a good boy is certainly not your kink.” I gave him my best feral dominant smile and bit him hard on his trapezius, making him yelp and squirm against me.

I made a point of getting to Cafe Milano fifteen minutes early because I wanted to watch Ilya arrive. As I expected, he walked in the door exactly on the dot of eleven o’clock. He was dressed in impeccable business casual, with everything clean and pressed. It was the first time I had seen him with a shirt on; he still looked damned good. He glanced around the cafe and I caught his eye with a wave and a smile. He came over to my table and said “Good morning, Grace. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

I tilted my head to the side and looked up at him. “Given that you’re right on time, I waited just as long as I planned to. Go get yourself a drink and come join me. And would you bring me a glass of iced tap water?”

“Certainly, Grace.” I had asked for the water both so I could see him in his first act of service and to make sure that I could have him do things for me without getting that down-low domme squirmy seat. I didn’t think he wanted to be desired in that way, and I needed to know whether this would work. I certainly enjoyed watching him walk to the counter but I wasn’t overwhelmed by the desire to grab him by the hair, hurt him, or make him crawl. I get that way with submissives, sometimes (and believe me, I enjoy it), but he wasn’t that sort of submissive. He would need a very different kind of care and management.

His body was still and quiet as he waited for his order and his movements were tidy and controlled as he made his way back to me without drinks. He set them down — mine first — and took a seat across from me. I thanked him and he said he was glad to be of service, but not in the  _ Oh my God that got me going _ way that someone who experienced submission as sexual would. More than anything, it seemed like being able to do something for me was a relief to him.

“So,” I began. “I’ll tell you what a typical weekend at our flat looks like, and then we’ll talk about forms of service you might provide. I live with my primary partner, Sam — you’ve met him at Pervocracy. Normally on a Friday evening we’re just recovering from the week — I teach at a primary school and he’s a software engineer. Saturday morning is for errands or a lie-in. Saturday evening we usually go out to a play party, although sometimes we have friends over instead. Either way, we typically have one or more partners in our bed with us overnight. In the morning, we host a drop-in pancake brunch for friends.”

At that moment, someone across the cafe called out “Bellerose!” Ilya looked startled for a moment before he schooled his expression and looked up. A young man in a Little Mermaid t-shirt, pink jeans, and glittery high-tops bounced over to us. At the last moment he tripped over nothing, but Ilya caught him with one hand while steadying the table with the other. 

“Hello, Arden,” Ilya said, in a long-suffering tone that suggested that this was not the first time he had saved Arden’s bacon. He turned to me and said “Grace, this is my, ah, friend Arden. Arden, this is Grace.”

“Oh, uh, hi! It’s great to meet you,” Arden said as he finished righting himself. “Don’t let me interrupt for too long. Because you’re talking. Well, obviously you know that you’re talking. But,” and here he turned to my companion, “Ilya, you look good. I’m glad.” He seemed to mean that quite sincerely, like maybe Ilya had been in rough shape the last time they had met.

“I am well, thank you, Arden. And you?”

“Things are great. Really great. Like  _ strawberries and champagne on a sunny day _ great.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Ilya tipped his head inquiringly. “And…”

“He’s good. Really good.” Arden rolled his eyes expressively. “Well, he’s in Singapore right now and I had to stay here for work.” He fluttered his lashes. “I’ve  _ tried _ to get Mara to give me a column on the international party scene so I could go with him more often, but she just said something about editorial decisions not being made for the convenience of her most junior employee.”

“Most inconsiderate of her,” said Ilya dryly. “Please give him my regards. If that’s all, I should like to get back to my conversation with Grace.”

“I’ll leave you two alone. Well, not  _ alone  _ alone since you’re in a public place, but in the conventional sense of leaving you alone.” He paused. “He’ll be glad to hear you’re okay.” 

Ilya answered, “Goodbye, Arden,” in the same long-suffering tone that he had greeted him with.

Arden nodded his head several times and scurried off.

Well. That was an interaction that raised at least a dozen questions, none of which I should ask. Ilya turned to me, his eyes slightly bleak, and said “Arden is a force of nature. And the past is a foreign country.”

“…they do things differently there,” I finished. “But we were talking about the future. Can you tell me what services you are willing to provide and any special skills you have?”

“I excel at event planning, scheduling, budgeting, and logistics.”

“…and so modest,” I murmur.

He continued impassively, “I do not believe that false modesty on my part would benefit either of us. I am happy to make reservations and run errands. I can clean, wash dishes, mend clothing, and care for fetish gear. I can organise cluttered or problem areas. I can cook only the simplest things; I am afraid even pancakes may be beyond me.”

“That’s fine. It’s a fifteen year tradition at this point and we like doing it.” 

“I would hardly want to deprive you of it if it gives you pleasure. I can provide grooming services, though I have more experience with men than women in that regard. I have massage training, and additionally I am entirely willing to provide sexual services. If this becomes an ongoing arrangement, I am happy to acquire any additional skills that would help me serve you better.”

“And is there anything you cannot or will not do?”

“Knitting is a thing I do for myself, and I wish to keep it that way. Other than that, no.”

“I know that you may not want to answer this question, since you don’t want this to be about your needs. But please tell me how I should treat you to make serving us work for you.”

“You are correct that as a general rule I do not want my desires considered. Indeed, my desires are very few — I am looking for the simplicity of being commanded; that is all. Give me straightforward instructions, without dissembling or apology.”

“Should we keep you continuously busy? Do you need down time?”

“I will be able to function best if I get six to eight hours of sleep. When I am awake, I can work continuously, but if there is a point where I am not needed, I can make myself unobtrusive.”

“And do you want to be thanked?”

“It… benefits me to know that my service is pleasing you or improving your experience. If I know that from your manner or your feedback, thanks is unnecessary, and praise would make me most uncomfortable.”

“I’ve been as straightforward as I can with you here because you’re so by-the-numbers. But I’m ordinarily quite a playful and teasing person. How do you feel about being verbally teased?”

“If it pleases you to tease me, then of course you should. I cannot promise to respond appropriately. I am not skilled in such matters or in dealing with people and emotions.”

“I suspect you may be selling yourself short there. Time will tell.” I took a sip of water and looked at him. “I think your serving us could work out well for everyone, but before I make an offer, there’s one more thing I need to hear from you. You say you’re willing to serve in almost any way. But I need you to promise me that if I tell you to do something that would be harmful or distressing for you, you will tell me so.”

“I do not expect you to do any such thing.”

“And I may not. Probably I won’t. But to be able to take you in hand without knowing you well, I need that promise.”

He sat in thought for some time. I could see that this wasn’t easy for him. The idea of keeping a piece of his own will and judgement that way was at odds with the erasure he was looking for, but I just didn’t know him well enough to take that on for him, even for just a weekend. Finally he said, “All right, I promise.”

“In that case, I think I could find plenty of tasks that would occupy you and benefit us, and I would be delighted to have you join us for a trial weekend. Will you?”

He nodded decisively. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s a very straightforward answer. I like that. Would you be able to come next weekend, say from five pm Friday to five pm Sunday?”

‘Yes, and I would be very glad to do so. Thank you for the opportunity to serve.”

“I will say this now and then not bother you with it again. You are very welcome.” I gave him a warm smile, to which he only nodded. I took out a card, added our address to it, and handed it to Ilya. “We’ll see you Friday at five.”

“Yes Grace, I will see you then. Are you finished with these things?” he asked, gesturing at my latte cup and water glass.

“Yes.”

“Then I will clear them away.”

And with that, he bustled around, clearing everything from the table and wiping it with a serviette, gave me a slight bow, and said, “Farewell until Friday.”

“Until Friday.” And he was gone.

That gave me a week to think about ways to make our trial weekend successful. I wanted to keep Ilya occupied for the majority of the time, since what he was craving was the simplicity of being told what to do, of substituting my will for his. On the other hand, I knew that he would spot busywork for what it was and wouldn’t find it rewarding. It would be better to give him an hour off than have him spend an hour doing something that would not actually improve our lives. 

The massage training sounded like a lovely benefit, and I was sure that by Friday evening both Sam and I would be ready to have some good relaxing hands-on treatment. Sexual services were another question. Our playmates wouldn’t want a stiff, distant stranger to suddenly be part of the action. I was sure that, if we built an ongoing partnership with Ilya, there would come a day when I wanted an additional mouth or cock or pair of hands to help me drive someone utterly wild and that Ilya would be able to do that well, but such a charged area seemed like the wrong place to start. Giving Sam a TGIF blowie would probably be satisfying to Ilya, but no more or less than massaging his shoulders would be.

Still, a lot of our lives revolved around sex play of various kinds, and I thought that having him assist in a non-sexual way would be a good start. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance, so I rang up our friend Amy and made plans to meet at Sin City on Saturday night for a scene where Ilya could help out. Then I contacted Ilya and the three of us met on Wednesday evening so that he wouldn’t be a completely new face on Saturday night, and so that Amy could explain what sorts of help she’d be looking for. 

I also set up a prepaid debit card he could use to run errands and make purchases. I was fairly certain that Ilya was pathologically honest, but I didn’t want to leave us open to significant losses if I was wrong, and handing him a wad of banknotes didn’t feel right either.

  
  


Ilya arrived promptly at five pm on Friday, carrying an overnight bag. “Hello, Ilya, thank you for coming. I’ll show you around the flat and then you can get to work.” 

I showed him the various rooms and tried to highlight things he might need: cleaning supplies, takeaway menus, dishes and cutlery, grooming supplies, the toy cupboard. Then I took him to the office and said “This is our guest room as well as our office. I hope the daybed is okay.”

“This will be fine, thank you.”

“You can put your things away here, then please arrange for dinner. The menus have our favourites circled. Get Indian, please; any of the places will be fine. Get something for yourself too. You can eat in the kitchen.” I had considered giving him the choice of whether to eat with us, but I realized that he didn’t really want to make choices and my telling him what to do would work better for him than having to decide. “There’s a debit card in the drawer with the menus. We’ll want to eat at seven. After you order dinner, please come to the sitting room to give me a foot rub.”

“Certainly, Grace.” 

I flung myself down on the sofa, settling my feet on the ottoman. I put my head back and closed my eyes, listening to Ilya ordering dinner, crisply and efficiently.

This was going to be an interesting weekend — full of little luxuries provided by Ilya, but also full of concern for his experience and whether I was managing him well. I’ve built relationships with submissives and switches and partners and playmates of all stripes. It’s always fun and always a challenge. 

But I’ve never interacted with someone like Ilya — I had heard and read about pure service submissives, but never met one before. I wondered how he had found that aspect of himself, and what in his personality and his past had shaped him that way. At that point we were just starting to build trust, and intimacy was far off (if we were going to get there at all), so it was not time to ask those questions.

My musings were cut short when Ilya came into the sitting room and cleared his throat to get my attention. “Would you like that foot rub now, Grace?”

“Oh yes, please.” I stretched in happy anticipation. If he had the skill level that his general demeanour suggested, this would be an excellent foot rub — and honestly, after a week on my feet teaching, it would feel good even if he turned out to be mediocre.

“Would you like me to sit on the ottoman or kneel?”

“Do whatever you think will work best. I don’t need you to be abject; I’m more interested in your doing a good job.”

“Very well.” He set down a small towel and a bottle of lotion, lifted my feet with sure hands, and sat on the ottoman with my feet in his lap. He removed my shoes and socks and began. I was making happy little noises when the door opened and Sam came in. 

“Well, it looks like you’re having a nice time!” he said with a smile.

“Come lie with your head in my lap and he can do your shoulders after he’s done with my feet.” Sam put his backpack on the table by the door and did as he was told (he generally does — it’s one of his charms). I let my fingers roam over his hair and face and slide into his shirt while I continued to enjoy Ilya’s attentions.

Later, I told Ilya, “Sam and I want to have a lie-in tomorrow. There’s a shopping list on the fridge; please pick everything up at Sainsbury’s and put it away when you get back. Own brands are fine, but use your best judgement. After we get up, please change the sheets on our bed and wash the old ones, and also the laundry from the basket in our room. If you have time after that, you can rest up until it’s time to get dinner — we’ll have a busy evening.”

Saturday evening after dinner, I had Ilya watch me load the toy bag so that he’d know where to put things back after the party. I started by showing him the things that are always in the bag — safety scissors, gloves, condoms, wet wipes, mini first aid kit, hair bobbles, and so on. I knew I might want him to be able to grab any of those things quickly. Then I loaded the things I wanted for that evening — cock and ball torture gear mostly, and some bondage cuffs, but also a few impact toys as well. My plans didn’t call for them, but I do like to be prepared. Ilya didn’t bat an eye at any of it. I had expected as much, but it was good to have it confirmed. Then we split up to get dressed to go out.

The three of us arrived at Sin City about an hour later. I was feeling fabulous in a retro pinup dress with a plunging neckline and a poofy, knee-length skirt. From a distance, the black-on-red print looked like it was just abstract loops, but close inspection revealed lots of teeny-tiny handcuffs. Sam had on a fitted black tank top and a kilt that was black when it hung down straight but had rainbow colours in the pleats that showed when he moved. Ilya was shirtless and wearing his familiar leather trousers, but instead of his knitting he was carrying our toy bag. 

We went together into the dungeon space. As we were standing near the entryway taking in the lay of the land, a young woman in a thigh-high stilettos and not much else oozed up to Ilya. “Well hello,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. I’m Jade.”

Even before she had finished speaking I could see that Ilya was uncomfortable. “He’s with us,” I said. “He’s not speaking to anyone but me tonight. And please don’t touch him.” I’m not generally that style of domme, let alone being that  _ to Ilya _ , but I could certainly play the part long enough to get him some breathing room. I doubted that we’d talk about my little rescue effort — even acknowledging that he had feelings seemed like it was outside his comfort zone — but judging from the brief grateful look he shot me, it was the right call. Jade fucked right off, which was what I was going for.

“Oh good,” I said. “The medical table’s available. Let’s get it while we can.” It was an elaborate upholstered thing with a back that could be raised and lowered, gynaecological stirrups, and some attachment points that had been added after it was installed in the dungeon. Amy would be joining us in a little while, but the first part of our scene didn’t need her. On an ordinary night she’d probably have come with us to give me a hand with the things I was going to do to Sam, but this would give me a chance to see how Ilya and I worked together. We walked over to the table and Ilya set down the bag. I hadn’t told Sam what to expect, although Amy and Ilya knew the plan. 

I gave Sam a deep kiss and ran a hand possessively over his chest. “I want you to strip, darling. And Ilya, please position the backrest at 60 degrees and remove the stirrups for now.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell  _ me _ twice,” Sam said with his typical enthusiasm as he pulled off his top. 

“I better not,” I replied with mock severity, giving him a swat on his arse. After he was naked, I told him, “Sit up there with your legs spread, love.”

I turned to Ilya. “Would you please fasten his wrists and ankles using the cuffs?” Sam was already half-hard from my kiss and caress and things were progressing nicely as Ilya bound him. Once the cuffs had been snapped to the attachment points, I knelt on the table between Sam’s legs and took a long look at him; he responded with a saucy grin.

“Ilya, get out the Velcro dots — the hook side — and stick them on my fingers for me.” Every sewing shop sells adhesive circles of hook-and-loop closures. If you stick them to your fingertips, you suddenly have ten little texture toys — gentle ones if you use the loop side, nastier ones if you use the hooks. 

I like nasty.

I held my hands out, fingers spread, and Ilya decorated me with my microtalons. I started teasing and tormenting Sam, travelling over his body, tracing his lips ever so lightly, pausing to rough up his nipples and tap his cock with my prickly fingertips whilst also spending time on places like his sides and his inner thighs that made him squeak, squeal, and squirm. I pinched and twisted his nipples with my smooth knuckles as well as abrading them with my little hooks, stroked his cock gently with my smooth palm as well as teasing with the nearly unbearable sensation of roughness on the head, sensitive now that he was hard and the foreskin was drawn away from it. 

“Oh, Grace, Grace, pleasepleaseplease!” It was one of those times when he didn’t even know what he was asking for, but I gave it to him anyway. He was tormented in the way he most liked, and I felt my power over him. It was getting me nice and juicy for Amy’s part of the action. I spent quite a while at it, enjoying all the sounds and pleas I drew out of him. 

Eventually, I turned to Ilya, who had been standing patiently and neutrally next to the table while I had my fun with Sam. “Please take off the Velcro. You can stick them back on their backing — I can use them again so long as it’s on Sam. Then get me the black nylon cord, D-rings, and O-rings.” 

I started to construct some elaborate bondage on Sam’s quite hard cock. I tied and wound, separating his balls and creating a gentle stretch, then wrapped and tied up his shaft and head. 

You can buy elaborate sets of rings and straps already configured, but I like the intimacy and creativity of making something new every time. At home, I would have finished up with some teasing tongue work on his trapped cock, but here in a public play space I would need to use a barrier, and where’s the fun in that? 

I contented myself with hand play. I wet my finger in his precome then teased the head of his cock between the criss-crossing cords and squeezed and stroked the tightly tied shaft. I was rewarded with some really lovely sounds, which I smothered with my mouth on his. After a while, I pulled back, letting him catch his breath. His chest heaved, but I didn’t let up with my hand on his captive cock.

As I was doing this, Amy came and joined us. I’m sure she had been watching and waiting for a good transition moment. “Hello, dear!” I exclaimed. She handed her bag to Ilya and then she and I glommed onto Sam (still immobilised) in a three-way hug (with bonus fondling), exchanged kisses, rubbed our faces over each other, and just generally got friendly and physically reconnected. All the while, I was vaguely aware of Ilya taking things out of Amy’s bag and getting set up. While we snuggled together, Amy whispered in Sam’s ear, “I want you to hold our beautiful Grace while I get my hand into her cunt and make her writhe. Will you do that for me?”

Of course Sam was up for it, answering, “Will I ever!” 

With that, we gave each other one more loving, lingering kiss and I got down from the table. I needed to get Sam’s cock and balls out of bondage; it wouldn’t be safe to leave them tied for as long as I knew Amy would be working me open. I handed the cords and rings back to Ilya, who took them impassively. 

I grasped Sam’s cock and gave him five good, long, lingering strokes — not enough to make him come, just enough to soothe and reward him. Then I gave him a last kiss and climbed back up onto the table, this time with my back to him. I lay back on his chest, being sure to wiggle my bum against his overstimulated prick. “Oh, Ilya, darling, would you put my hair back? Sam doesn’t need all that in his face.” I have a large mass of blond curls, and Sam loves it, but he would be happier if he wasn’t trying to breathe through it. 

Sam wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled my neck while Amy helped me get my feet into the stirrups. She stood between them and ran her hands possessively up my thighs, sliding up my skirt, revealing the lacy tops of my stay-up thigh-high stockings and my complete lack of knickers.

Up to this point, I’d been directing the action, getting us to the table, tormenting Sam, making sure Ilya had the right kind of involvement. Now it was time for me to let go, to trust that my lovers had this. 

Amy had fisted me before — always to my great delight — and I’d talked with her about Ilya’s needs as I saw them. Sam would keep me safe and held and loved and Amy would make sure Ilya was all right while taking me in hand and bringing me to extraordinary heights. I closed my eyes and took in a deep, expansive breath, and as I let it out, I let all my weight go back onto Sam, knowing that he would hold me securely and lovingly, that no one here would let me fall, that for this moment, there was nothing I had to do, only to be.

Now, instead of a hug with three active participants, there was me in the centre being cherished by Sam and Amy. Sam had his arms across my belly, holding me securely, nuzzling and kissing and nibbling my nape and my ears. Amy leaned into me, her hands grasping my hips, her strong arms pressed against my thighs. Her eager lips and tongue danced with mine, then she worked her way across my cheeks, getting in under my jaw, leaving a trail of awakened skin as she moved down into the deep cleavage of my bodice. 

Sam squeezed the outside of my breast as she sucked a love bite onto the inner surface, a souvenir I could have all week under my proper, practical teacher blouses. Something I could treasure every time I saw myself naked. As their kisses continued, Amy’s hands worked the flesh of my arse, my thighs, my belly, pressing and kneading and scratching and stroking, making every bit of me feel alive and whole and unified, so I was not many parts but one body — held, cherished, electrified.

Amy stood up straight for a moment and turned to Ilya. “Gloves,” she said. He handed her a pair and she put them on, then gave me two gloved fingers to lick and suck. I loved them with my mouth, loved them as the sex organ they were, the leading edge of the hand that was going to fill me up and make me come. 

She withdrew them slowly, leaving me reaching my head forward for more, for one last lick, but she kissed me lightly like a promise then turned to Ilya and said, “Lube.” 

He lifted a squeeze bottle out of a warm water bath and coated her fingers, and then she started saying hello to my cunt. She had her left hand up on my shoulder now, her head resting on my chest, as her warm, lube-slick fingers and thumb began their journey. She traced my labia with her fingertips and rubbed my clit with the heel of her hand. I rocked eagerly against her, and between us we got me to a nice warm-up orgasm, just a light taste of what was to come. She dipped her thumb into my opening just far enough to press on the sides, massaging those sensitive clitoral legs — the places where I craved pressure and longed to be opened.

It went on and on, my body supported, my ears and neck and the upper reaches of my breasts stimulated by both my lovers, and Amy’s entry into my cunt progressing steadily but carefully, full of delightful detours: two fingers, a lengthy visit to my G spot, then the fingers reaching further in. All the while I was vaguely aware of Ilya standing there patiently, lube in one hand and spray bottle in the other, giving Amy what she needed — another squirt of lube when she was ready to add another finger, a spritz of water if the lube started to go from slick to sticky. Not speaking, not fidgeting; not a voyeur, but a support. 

Amy and Sam were my lovers, had been for years, and they were all over my body, pleasing me in all the ways they could, but Ilya was there for my pleasure too. And it added something, having him there. Knowing that all of my pleasure gave him satisfaction. Not the satisfaction of a lover, taking pleasure in touching my body, in the taste and texture and smell of me, but simply in the  _ idea _ of my pleasure and the knowledge that he was helping it happen. I felt my soul nurtured by his as his service and the fulfilment it gave him created a bond between us.

Amy continued to caress and probe, to get further into me. Four fingers now, a glorious stretch, and she was telling me how beautiful she found me, how strong and hot my cunt was, how she wanted to reach into my very centre. I was arching my back into Sam, thrusting my pelvis along Amy’s bundle of fingers. I reached and yearned, my cunt hungry and eager, stretched and half-satisfied.

And then there we were, poised on that moment of just before — of not quite yet, of wait for it — the widest part of her hand folded as small as it would go and pressing,  _ pressing _ , gently and firmly and lovingly against that tight entrance, the ring of muscle that is the portal to my body. I felt her there, insistent but patient, rotating the tiniest bit to coax the muscle into welcome and then, with a great sigh, my body let her in. 

With that, once the width of her hand was past the collar, she slid in like she was coming home, sliding into my upper reaches, flung wide from my arousal. Her wrist filled the entry as she slowly rotated her fist and moved it gently back and forth, making me feel her, making me know I had her and she had me. My pulse was pounding around her hand and wrist, my very life holding her fast inside me. 

She had stopped talking but was looking, wonder-struck, down at the place where her forearm vanished into me. Sam was not nuzzling me now, just holding me, knowing that in this moment I didn’t want distraction. Ilya stood by, calm and present, content from my pleasure, happy to assist my happiness. 

And then Amy put the heel of her other hand on my clit and started rocking again, so I had the one hand moving inside me, the other sending pleasure shocks through the entire area, my pulse pounding and pounding and then I was arching back hard into Sam and practically standing up in the stirrups and coming in waves, in waves, in  _ waves _ , my entire lower belly one powerful sex organ clutching and grasping at my lover’s hand. 

My mind was empty of thought as the pleasure coursed through me and left me weak, but all through every moment of it I was still aware of these three people and their care of me, like I was dissolving in a pool of love.

Then came the denouement, everything relaxing. Amy broke the vacuum seal created by my clenching muscles with a gentle finger from her other hand. She withdrew slowly, leaving behind a sense of peace and power, leaving me limp and content in Sam’s arms. She said, “Bag please” and Ilya held one out for her to shuck her lube-covered gloves into. She leaned into me so that I was once again covered front and back by these two dear souls, all three of us breathing together, brought into synchrony by the climax we had just gone through — my climax, but felt by them too: Amy in my grasping, greedy, glorying cunt and Sam in the arch of my back and the sounds that I made. 

We breathed together until they sensed that I was ready for Amy to help me down. Sam said “Ilya, clean up here and then meet us in the recovery space, yeah?” and Amy unfastened his ankles. Sam got gingerly down and put his kilt back on to make himself decent enough to leave the playroom. Ilya started spraying the table with disinfectant as we walked slowly away. My lovers supported me on either side and I danced dazedly between them as we made our way slowly to a squashy couch in another room. 

We ended up in a sloppy cuddle-pile with Amy more or less in the middle — she deserved it after all her hard work. When Ilya joined us a bit later, bringing both our bag and Amy’s, Sam said, “Mate, could you be a big spoon for Grace there?” and I felt his lovely muscular chest behind me, his strong arm around me. 

We lay there and talked idly of one thing and another — that is, Sam and Amy and I talked; Ilya just held me. Eventually, when I felt up to it, I asked Ilya to get a taxi and all four of us headed back to the flat.

When we arrived home, I made sure Ilya had tasks to keep him busy. “Please make us hot drinks, then clean the toys and put them away. We won’t need you again after that. I’ll have a hot chocolate .”

“And you?” Ilya asked, turning to Amy and Sam.

“Chamomile tea, please,” said Amy.

“Warm milk with a half shot of brandy,” Sam put in.

Ilya fetched our drinks. After he brought them out to us, he turned to me and asked, “What time will you require me in the morning?”

“Our brunch guests may start to trickle in as early as ten o’clock, so if you come to help set up at nine thirty that should be plenty of time. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I really loved having you there supporting our scene. I had a mind-blowing time, and knowing you were there, steady and reliable, added one more layer of enjoyment to my sense of being surrounded, supported and spoilt.”

It was subtle, but that definitely brought a little glow to him. “I am glad to have pleased you,” he said, bobbing his head. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

After he left, we sat in quiet companionship with our drinks as we had after so many nights of adventures. 

“Ilya’s a perfect assistant — attentive, patient, and intelligent. What do you suppose he’s like outside of his service role?” Amy wondered.

“Well, you got to talk with him when we met on Wednesday to make plans. He had more to say then, but it was pretty much all business. I doubt he’s ever one for idle chit chat,” I replied.

Sam, who doesn’t do  _ all business _ , said “Yeah, but what about when he lets his hair down, when he’s hanging out with his mates?”

“I’m not sure that’s a thing he does,” I said. “We’ll learn more if we keep having him with us.”

We put our cups in the sink and headed off for a good, cosy, friendly night in our very large bed.

I got up at nine and shuffled to the kitchen for a cup of tea. The fact that we may have guests at ten keeps us from sleeping in on Sunday, which is a mixed bag. It would be lovely to spend the morning snuggling and drowsing, but we can enjoy more of the day if we actually get up, and having friends drop in to see us every week is very precious.

Ilya was already there, shaking out a dish towel and hanging it up neatly. I saw that he had washed the mugs that we had left in the sink, and then I did a double-take. The sink and all its hardware was gleaming brightly. It hadn’t been dirty before, exactly, but it hadn’t looked factory new. I looked around and saw that the surfaces of the refrigerator, range, and oven were similarly spotless. “Well,” I said, “you’ve certainly been busy. Very nice.”

“I’m glad that my work pleases you.”

“But you know, we’ll just make a terrible mess of it all once we start cooking.”

“And I will be just as happy to do it all again afterwards.”

I sighed. “You are a wonder, Ilya.” He turned away, evidently uncomfortable, and I regretted saying it. “We serve buffet style on the dining table. Please put out plates, cutlery, and napkins, then butter and syrup, then drinks.”

“Yes, Grace.” He sounded fine. All he needed was a job to do and he was perfectly content and composed. I wondered whether that was an enviable state of being or not. From the way he was when he didn’t have a task, I thought on balance, not. 

I started mixing up pancake batter and Sam came into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around me from behind and nuzzling into my neck. I turned around to kiss him rather thoroughly because I do have priorities, then pushed him off me and said, “I’ve got batter here; you can get cooking any time,” and he bent to retrieve the frying pans.

Amy was doubtless still asleep; she worked long hours during the week and then slept in on the weekend.

“Pardon me?” It was Ilya.

“Yes?”

“What beverages should I set out?”

“The kettle, and tea things, plus ice water and orange juice.” He got right to it.

The first couple of pancakes were dreadful as always: misshapen combinations of over- and under-cooked. Sam and I smiled at each other as we nibbled on them. How many hundreds of times have we done that? Once Sam started stacking good ones on the serving platter, I made up a plate and took it in to Amy along with a cup of tea. I set it on the nightstand and kissed her hair. She stirred sleepily but didn’t rouse all the way.

Once people started arriving and the cooking was done, I told Ilya, “Join us in the sitting room so you’re on hand if we need anything. And help yourself to pancakes.” I wondered whether he would push back at that — we hadn’t eaten together yet — but he served himself tidily with no fuss. 

Various people came and went, as always. Amy eventually emerged from the bedroom and settled into Sam’s lap. I was especially happy to see Laurie and Toby. Laurie looked so much happier since they had gotten together (and since he had finally stopped trying to “protect” Toby by not letting love in). Ilya did some bustling back and forth, refilling the kettle and clearing dishes, but was generally content to sit with us.

At one point, Toby was sitting on the floor, leaning against Laurie’s leg and finishing off his umpteenth pancake — and let me say, I admire a dom who will just sit casually at their sub’s feet. I’ve never seen the two of them play, but I think that Toby’s mastery of Laurie is so total and so secure that he doesn’t have any need to pose or posture. After all, Laurie went to his knees for Toby within ten minutes of meeting him. Toby was rough and unfinished and out of his depth, but they immediately recognised something in each other.

At any rate, Toby was sitting there, his mouth not quite empty of pancake, and he said, “Ilya, are you submissive?” with great curiosity, as if he really wanted to know. 

I looked at him sharply and Laurie said, “Toby” in his most quelling and cautionary tone.

Toby immediately started floundering. “Shit, that’s way too personal of a question, I should never have asked.” He put his plate down on the floor and gestured with his fork. “It’s just I can usually tell — I knew right away with Laurie.” He turned his head and put a kiss on Laurie’s knee (and Laurie turned rather red). “But I keep thinking you are, then thinking you aren’t, and here you are doing things for Grace and Sam. But it’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”

But Ilya didn’t mind the question; he straightforwardly said, “I value being of service, but I do not crave pain, domination, or degradation.”

I looked at him. “Would you let me dole those things out to you if I wanted to?”

He returned my gaze. “Of course I would. But only because it would make you happy, not because any of them have an intrinsic appeal to me.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t ask you for those things. I like hurting people who want to be hurt.”

At which Sam said “You called?” and we all burst into laughter, which thankfully defused a conversation that had gotten too real too quickly.

We all lingered together until the last guests left around four, at which point Ilya got to work cleaning up, washing dishes, and making the kitchen spotless again. When he was finished, I went to him and said, “Thank you for your service this weekend. It’s been lovely having you here.”

“I am happy to be of service. I will get my things and leave now, assuming that is still your preference.”

“Yes. Let’s both spend a few days reflecting on the experience. Can you come here Wednesday evening at seven to debrief and discuss the future?”

“Certainly.” He went to the guest room and got his things. It took very little time; I’m sure he had kept his things meticulously in place and didn’t scatter them about the way I do when I stay somewhere even for a short time.

He came back out and Sam and I walked with him to the door.

“Well, goodbye, mate,” said Sam.

“Goodbye,” Ilya replied.

“Can I hug you?” I asked.

“If you wish to, of course.”

I wrapped him in my arms and he stood there stiffly. “Come on, hug me back.”

He put his arms around me carefully and squeezed with all the grace and warmth of C-3PO.

I smiled and let him go and said, “See you Wednesday.”

He nodded and went out, closing the door carefully behind him.

I turned to Sam. “Well, what do you think? Is that something we want to repeat?”

“It was good fun, but I wouldn’t want him here every day. It’s nice having help, and backrubs on demand is excellent, but I missed wandering around naked and being able to have sex in any part of the flat.”

“Given that he saw Amy up to her wrist in me last night, I’m sure we could do those things if we wanted.”

“Maybe, but a club feels different to our home, you know?”

I nodded “I know. And honestly, I was working pretty hard to make sure I had enough stuff for him to do. It was rewarding, but I couldn’t do that every day or even every weekend. I think I’ll suggest a monthly arrangement to start.”

On Wednesday night, Sam let Ilya into the flat at precisely seven pm (of course). I walked over to him and said, “I’m going to hug you now.”

Ilya said, “All right” in much the way you’d say it if an alien that you mostly trusted, and really wanted to like you, was approaching you with the probe device. I wrapped my arms around him and he gave me one of his stiff-elbowed pats on the back. 

I disengaged, smiled, and patted him on the cheek. “You’ll get used to it if you keep hanging out with us.” He shifted a bit self-consciously, so to put him more at ease I added, “Now, would you please go get hot chocolate for me and Sam, and whatever you would like for yourself?”

“Of course, Grace.”

While he was in the kitchen, I curled up in a corner of the sofa and Sam snuggled up next to me. With most new subs I would debrief on neutral territory, but Ilya was so self-contained and unchangeable that home seemed fine.

I amused myself by playing with Sam’s hair until Ilya came in bearing a tray with three mugs. He set the tray on the coffee table and handed each of us a mug, then took his own mug — it looked like it held tea, no milk — and sat, quite upright, on the chair next to the sofa.

I drank deep and said, “Mm, this is good,” which lit Ilya up a little bit. He took a sip of tea, which I suspected was more for the look of the thing than because he really wanted it. 

“So. I really appreciated your service this weekend. You do everything quickly and well and if I can hand a task off to you, it takes worries off of me. How was our weekend for you?”

“I am glad to hear that my service had value for you. As for your question, I would prefer that this not be about me.”

I sighed. I had spent a good part of the previous two days thinking about how to get him to open up at least a little. “I know that. But here’s the thing. Part of my goal and even my pleasure in this arrangement is in meeting your need to serve. Knowing that I am fulfilling that gives me significant satisfaction. That may not have been part of your past arrangements, but I want it to be part of this one. So please, as a service to me, tell me about your experience with us.” 

He cleared his throat. “I would very much rather not.”

“Ilya, you please me in so many ways. You please me when you rub my feet. You please me when you spritz water onto the lube that’s drying out as my lover ploughs into my cunt. You please me when you make my kitchen shine.” He glowed a little at hearing this. It clearly fed his soul. “And you please me when you let me meet your need to serve.” And  _ that _ made him droop.

I continued speaking. “I have a lot of friends and lovers and play partners, and now I hope I have you too, in a role that’s not like any of the others. I think of it like an ecosystem. In a healthy, functioning ecosystem, it’s a network. Everything contributes, and everything benefits. And part of your contribution to me is the satisfaction I get from knowing that being here is good for you.” 

I leaned towards him. “I know you’re uncomfortable with being seen. But this is part of who I am as a domme. My catchphrase for sex is ‘ _ everybody has fun and nobody gets hurt.’  _ I know you’re not here for fun, so modify that to fulfilment; but for this to work for me, it has to work for you, and I need to know that. Can you accept that?”

Ilya closed his eyes and swallowed, then paused for several beats. When he opened them again, he said, “It will be a challenge to adjust my thinking. But in order to serve you, I will try. What would you like to know?”

“You came to Pervocracy for months looking for something. Did this past weekend give you at least some of what you were looking for?”

“Yes, it did, thank you.”

“And would you like to do it again, or explore other ways of serving us?” I thought that the phrase  _ ‘would you like’ _ made him uneasy, but he managed to reply.

“Yes, very much so.”

“I’m glad. For now, I suggest we get together monthly, perhaps on the third weekend of every month. Would you like to do that?”

“Yes, Grace, I would.” 

“That’s all right then. How about a foot rub before you go?”

“Of course, Grace.” He’s plainly relieved to be done with the questions and back to giving service — and that’s fine.

That was four years ago. Ilya still stays with us at least one weekend a month. He comes on other occasions as well, or does work for me at a distance, but he’s not here full time. Sam’s still not completely happy having sex in the sitting room when he’s here, although it has happened a couple of times. (There was a day when I ended up shouting to him from the bedroom to please bring us more lube, and that kind of broke the ice in that department.) He’s taking cooking classes, so sometimes we get home-cooked meals. He’s learning fast and doing well, of course. His julienne is nearly as perfect as Toby’s, and  _ he’s _ just been promoted to legumier.

We’ve also taken him on vacation with us a few times, and that is a pure delight. He manages all the practical details, from making reservations (I may never have to comparison shop for aeroplane tickets again!) to stocking the kitchen of the rental house, cooking meals, and fetching takeaway. All we have to do is lie around enjoying ourselves, getting daily massages from his practised hands.

He’s learnt to let me know that he’s busy and satisfied, though that was a long row to hoe. His hugs have gotten a little more natural, too. I can tease him and tweak him and rely on him.

And last Christmas, he gave us all hand-knitted socks.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherworldsivelivedin) for brainstorming, beta reading, and Brit picking. [Tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) also beta read, and [Sourcherrymagiks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks), [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover), [banjjakbanjjak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakbanjjak), and [ladymac111](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111) were very helpful consultants for the Sin City sex scene.
> 
> I adore comments! I don’t expect a lot of readers for this because of the obscurity of the fandoms, so if you do read and enjoy it, I’d love it if you told me so! Kudos are good too. 8^)


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